Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
by beargirl1393
Summary: A collection of one-shots about Holmes & Watson, usually anywhere from 500-2,000 words. Established relationship, Holmes/Watson slash, but nothing explict is mentioned.
1. Let Me Help You

_**Let Me Help You**_

**Summary:** In "The Cardboard Box" Holmes seemed very disturbed when they left Lestrade and Mr. Browner. I thought he needed a little fluff, and he and Watson took this a slightly different way. Watson POV.

Warnings: Depression, mentions of violence, references to suicide, past minor character death. There is angst and a little fluff.

* * *

I kept stealing glances at my companion on our journey back to Baker Street, but he was still and silent, brooding. This last case affected him greatly, moreso than any I have seen in quite some time. It is rare that a case will affect him thus, and when it does I notice his frequent glances towards that damnable Morocco case.

"Holmes," I said as we settled by our chairs by the fire, "What about this case affected you so badly?"

Grey eyes glanced at me before their owner returned them to the fire. Holmes seemed reluctant to answer, but after a small sigh he began to speak.

"This entire case would have never occurred except for the petty jealousy of a scorned woman," Holmes said, quietly and without removing his eyes from the fire. "Simply because she was unable to have the man she wanted, Miss Cushing resolved to make her younger sister miserable, planting suspicions against her husband in her head. The man turns to drink, disgusting the wife and leading her to seek other companionship, which leads to the death of her and her lover, and sends the husband to gaol or to the rope. And all because Mr. Browner chose the younger sister instead of the middle one. Tell me Watson, what is the point to this circle of misery and violence?"

I sat, slightly stunned and unsure of how to respond. I too had been appalled by the sister's actions, but the rest of the crime had rather neatly swept the starting details from my mind.

When I gave no answer, Holmes looked at me, the slight smile on his lips attempting to mask the despair in his eyes. I could see the beginnings of one of his horrible 'black moods' setting in, and I desperately cast about for something to distract him.

Before I could suggest something, although I hardly know what I would have said, Holmes rose. "I think I will retire Watson. Alone," he added when I rose to follow.

I sank back in my seat, murmuring a reply to his goodnight absentmindedly. Ever since our relationship evolved, there has scarce been a night we have not spent at least partly together. To stay together all night would be madness, but Holmes would usually follow me to my room, where we occasionally engaged in carnal pursuits, and he would sleep beside me for several hours. He would steal back to his own room before dawn so as to avoid detection, yet he has always intimated that he slept best when we were together. Now, he is in one of his black moods and wishes to be left alone.

I cast my eyes toward my desk, thankful to see that the Morocco case still rests there. Settling more comfortably into my chair, I debated the ways to break Holmes out of his melancholy. I rarely know what to try to help him, as my own outlook is rather different from his. He sees me as the eternal optimist, and he has more than once pointed out that my beliefs border on naivety at times.

Standing, I made my way to his bedroom, opening the door and slipping inside. I paid no attention to the criminals adorning the walls and only absently noted that he hadn't started a fire on my way to the bed. He was curled underneath his bedclothes, his back to the door and me. He made no sign that he had heard me, or that he was even awake, but I knew he was. There was too much tension in his thin frame for him to be sleeping.

"Let me help you Holmes," I murmur, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting a hand on his back. He's shaking, trembling violently with the force of his suppressed emotions, and I knew there had to be something else bothering him. No case had ever affected him thus.

"You know that I am French, on my mother's side," Holmes said, his voice strained yet steady.

"Yes, you mentioned that once before, when you spoke of art in the blood taking the strangest forms," I murmured, trying to figure out where he was heading with this. Holmes could change topics rapidly, and often I would miss the chain that connected the different topics.

"There wasn't only art in her blood," was Holmes' dark reply. "It is a reason that Mycroft should be thankful he has inherited more of our father's tendencies than our mother's."

"You take after your mother?" I ask cautiously. Holmes rarely spoke of his family. I knew next to nothing about his family, save the little I knew about his brother Mycroft.

"Yes," Holmes replied, turning over and piercing me with his grey eyes. They were filled with despair and resignation. "She went quite mad, in the end. She had never been quite right after Mycroft was born, and it only got worse after I was born. She went downhill quickly, and nothing Father did could stop her from taking her life."

"Holmes," I breathed. I hadn't known…he had never mentioned this. "What happened?"

"She was subject to the same black moods that affect me," Holmes replied, his eyes distant. "They got worse, after my birth. The doctors kept telling Father that she would get better in time, but she never did. One day the fit struck her and never left. I was three, Mycroft ten. She was withdrawn, hardly leaving her rooms, or her bed for that matter. Father sat with her often, as did Mycroft and I, but she never seemed to notice. In the end, she hung herself with her bedclothes, while Mycroft and I were with our tutors and Father was working. I found her when I went to ask her about lunch."

"Oh Holmes," I murmured, sliding down beside my best friend and lover and drawing him close to me. He rested his head on my good shoulder, placing his ear over my heart. "I am so sorry."

Holmes shrugged, although I could tell he wasn't as disinterested as he appeared to be. "It was long ago Watson. I have accepted it."

"But you worry that the same thing will happen to you," I said, suddenly seeing what had upset him so. Violence without cause, the onset of a black mood, the worry that he won't escape from it. Perhaps he always worries when he feels the mood strike, but this time it struck too close for comfort. "The anniversary is soon?" I may not be the world's only consulting detective, but I have learned a few things living with him.

"Yes, to both questions," Holmes murmurs, voice slightly muffled by my skin. "In a few days."

"I won't let that happen to you Holmes," I said softly, pressing a kiss into his messy hair, no longer slicked back with brilliantine.

"Where would I be without my Boswell?" Holmes asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"The same place I would be without my Sherlock," I answer, pressing another kiss to his dark locks, such a contrast to his name. "Sleep love. Everything should look brighter in the light of a new day." Holmes didn't answer, but he didn't need to. I held him until he fell asleep, my mind whirling. Eventually, I felt the pull of sleep and promised myself that tomorrow I would talk to Holmes more about this. For now, he was in my arms, safe from everyone who wanted to hurt him. Even himself.


	2. Honor The Light Brigade

_**Honor The Light Brigade**_

**Summary:** Who had failed...I know not. What I do know is that Holmes set out on his case secure in the knowledge that I would be behind him shortly, and moments later I was waylaid.

A/N: I have this posted separately on this site already, but I had to add it to this. It could be seen as either gen or slash, whichever you prefer.

* * *

"_Forward, the Light Brigade!"_

_Was there a man dismay'd?_

_Not tho' the soldier knew_

_Someone had blunder'd:_

_Theirs not to make reply,_

_Theirs not to reason why,_

_Theirs but to do and die:_

_Into the valley of Death_

_Rode the six hundred._

There weren't quite so many men in this particular venture as in the old poem, yet it has never been truer that an error had occurred, marring my friend's perfect plan. Who had failed…I know not. What I do know is that Holmes set out on his case secure in the knowledge that I would behind him shortly, and moments later I was waylaid. Inspector Lestrade may be partially at fault, but I should have known better than to let Holmes set off on his own on such a dangerous mission. He has so little regard for his own welfare, which is one of the many reasons I stay so close beside him. Now, it is possible that I will never be by his side again.

_Boldly they rode and well,_

_Into the jaws of Death,_

_Into the mouth of Hell_

_Rode the six hundred._

The cavern where Holmes was finally discovered was certainly dismal enough. The bodies of several men, the very men he had been trailing, lay around him. My poor friend was much the worse for wear from his venture, however. He must have known, before confronting them, that we were not behind him to back him up. Regardless of that fact, Holmes rode into the mouth of hell, going up against almost a dozen armed men on his own.

_While horse and hero fell,_

_They that had fought so well,_

_Came thro' the jaws of Death_

_Back from the mouth of Hell,_

_All that was left of them,_

_Left of six hundred._

_When can their glory fade?_

_O the wild charge they made!_

_All the world wondered._

_Honor the charge they made,_

_Honor the Light Brigade,_

_Noble six hundred._

My friend remained unconscious for several days, while I sat silently at his side, a lonely vigil. Many speak of Holmes' accomplishments, yet few know the extent to which he will push himself to achieve those goals. Time will inevitably cause the memory of Holmes' accomplishments to fade from the mind of the public, yet I will always honor his sacrifice. If more scars are added to my body and mind whilst I accompany him, then so be it. I will never forget the moment, the most recent one, where my friend prepared to give his life for mine.


	3. Worth Waiting For

_**Worth Waiting For**_

**Summary: **Watson thinks of the ways he has wronged Holmes and wonders if he will ever be able to rectify his mistakes

* * *

"Holmes, talk to me," I implored. Holmes had been rather cool to me throughout our encounter with Miss Morstan, although I could not fault him. Miss Morstan's acceptance of my offer of courtship had no doubt wounded him deeply. For all that he pretended otherwise, Sherlock Holmes had a great heart that rivaled his extraordinary brain.

"What is there for me to say Watson?" Holmes asked, his languorous tone belied by the tension in his thin frame. He shook the little bottle pensively before grabbing his syringe. "As you said, what remains for me? You have gotten the fair wife you so obviously desire, and I see no reason to hold off indulging in cocaine to stave off boredom."

I couldn't reply. Since Holmes and I began our carnal relationship, he had promised me that he would never again indulge in cocaine. I wrote in my stories that he used it frequently, so as to avert questions as to why Holmes stopped his regular practice. I was cautious and wary of being discovered, which ultimately led to my proposing to Miss Morstan. A charming woman, to be sure, and certainly she will make a fine wife, yet I do not love her as I love Holmes. I do not think I ever will.

Holmes took my silence as agreement. "I must say Watson," he added as he carefully tied the tourniquet around his lean arm, "I had not expected this. You continue to surprise me."

"Holmes," I tried, but my voice was the barest whisper and he continued as though I had not spoken.

"I had forgotten a deduction that I had made in my youth which has been furnished over the years," Holmes continued, eyes upon his syringe. "Everyone lies. It does not matter for what reason, every person will lie to another at some point in their life. I had not expected you would conform to that pattern Watson. Thank you for reminding me that I should never look for exceptions that disprove the rule."

"When have I lied to you Holmes?" I cried, heartsick. I could see our friendship, our careful romance, shattering around me, yet I had no idea how to repair it.

"You told me you loved me," he replied, his tone subdued as he put the syringe to his arm. "My mistake was believing you." With that, he injected himself with the vile poison, and I watched stunned.

I moved closer to take his pulse, noticing that he had lied to me. The bottle was full of morphine, not cocaine, but I ought to have expected that. Cocaine promotes clarity of thought in Holmes, and today of all days he would want to forget. I suppose I should be thankful that it was morphine and not opium.

After ensuring that Holmes' dose was not fatal, I took up my stick, donned my coat and hat, and escaped into the night. I wandered to Regent's Park where Holmes and I had passed many an hour in idle conversation. He would amuse me by deducing the people who passed us, gleaning more information in a glance that most people would know after a prolonged study. Those memories, though still tinged with amusement, were filled with nostalgia. I knew that our relationship would never go back to what it once was. The easy friendship would be strained, and the pleasant romance would die, if it was not already dead. I was a fool to place my reputation higher than my regard for Holmes, yet even now I do not regret my choice. If we had remained as we were, there would invariably be those who would suspect our true inclinations. It was this fear that led to this, and even though I had expected him to be angry, I had not expected the deep hurt I saw in his expressive grey eyes.

* * *

Upon returning to our rooms, I saw that Holmes had vacated the settee and the door to his room was firmly shut. I saw little of Holmes in the days leading up to my wedding, as he rose earlier and returned later than I. I busied myself with setting up a practice and buying a house, yet my days were empty without Holmes by my side. Mary was a wonderful woman, and would no doubt make a wonderful wife, but I knew that when I was to lie with her, it would be Holmes who filled my mind.

I had asked Holmes to be my best man, and he had agreed as there was no one else suitable. The hollow look in his eyes gutted me, and he began staying away from Baker Street. I would move to my new house as soon as I married, yet I wished I could go sooner. Holmes was a shadow of his former self, going about the motions yet finding no joy in them. I managed to follow him one day, and he led me to a set of rooms in Pall Mall. What he was doing there, I did not know, and I did not stay to enquire. It showed how deeply absorbed he was in his thoughts that he had not noticed me.

* * *

After I married, I saw Holmes as infrequently as I had in the days following my proposal. Occasionally he would call upon me for help with cases, and in those moments all would be almost right. One look at his thin, pale face, thinner and paler than ever, would convince me of my folly. Holmes was wasting away, and even his precious cases, once so dear to his heart, could not hold his interest.

* * *

I learned later that it was his brother who he had visited, that it was he who had rooms in Pall Mall. Mycroft Holmes glanced sideways at me several times, yet I knew not why until he appeared in my consulting room one day. He asked why I had toyed with his brother's affections, and what my purpose in continuing to torment him was. I told him that I had no intention to ever harm Holmes, and that I had endeavored several times to keep him from harm. He stared at me for some time before rising to go, remarking over his shoulder that no criminal had hurt his brother more than I had.

This I had proof of several years later, when Holmes faked his death and then returned three years later. Sitting by the fire at Baker Street with him, I inquired as to why he hadn't informed me he was alive in the beginning, and his look of confusion gave proof to his brother's words. Holmes believed that I cared nothing for him, so it wouldn't have seemed necessary to offer even the paltry reassurance. Adding to that the danger in which the knowledge of his continued existence would have placed me, it is no wonder that he hadn't told me. Holmes would risk his own life, a dozen times or more, but he always attempted to keep me out of harm's way.

* * *

Settling back into my rooms at Baker Street once more, I began to contemplate attempting to make amends to Holmes. His death threw into sharp relief something which had been clear to him from the beginning. Life is too short, and love too fleeting, to waste time. He had always deferred to me upon matters of the heart, yet he saw this clearly where I struggled.

I began this narrative, in the hopes that setting my thoughts over the years down on paper would assist me, but all I have done is consider the many ways that I wronged poor Holmes. Why would he open himself up to such attentions again, when misery was the outcome before?

* * *

**Because, my dear Watson, you are worth waiting for-SH**


	4. Jealousy And Reassurance

_**Jealousy & Reassurance**_

**Summary: **In "The Adventure of the Dancing Men", I noticed how effusive Inspector Martin is with his praise of Holmes. It made me wonder how Watson would feel if he and Holmes were in a relationship. Nothing explicit is mentioned, beyond quick hand holding and a special note. Basically Holmes/Watson fluff.

* * *

Watson frowned as he listened to Inspector Martin fawn over Holmes. From the moment they had arrived, the Inspector had been enthusiastic in his praise of Holmes, but it seemed to get worse with each word Holmes spoke.

_It's not as though I don't know how easy it is to be impressed by him, _his more charitable side said. _But if he were any more enthusiastic he might as well be throwing himself at Holmes' feet,_ his jealous side argued back. That side was the larger of the two unfortunately, and wasn't helped even when Holmes seemed to take no notice of the Inspector's praise. By the time Abe Slaney was arrested, I was nearly beside myself. Thankfully, Inspector Martin left with his murderer before I could do something that I would likely regret.

I took the paper from Holmes, listening to how he explained what he had written, and felt a flash of smug pride that, no matter what praise Inspector Martin heaped upon Holmes, I was the one who was by his side.

"By the way Watson," Holmes said as we rattled in our carriage to the train station, "I have a message for you."

I searched Holmes' face as I took the slip of paper from him, but his red-Indian expression gave nothing away. As expected, there was a line of dancing men instead of his usual handwriting. I had no chance to decipher it immediately, as we pulled up at the station, but after we had boarded the train I withdrew my notebook and looked at the dancing men with their meanings written below. Looking between those and the paper Holmes gave me, I endeavored to decipher the message.

_M, Y,_ I thought as I began to uncover the secret message. Thankfully, Holmes didn't use any characters that hadn't been explained, so my decoding was fairly simple. When I was finished, about halfway through our journey home, I was suddenly thankful that we were alone in the compartment. I am fairly certain that my face flushed as I read Holmes' message.

_My Beloved I love you_

I looked up to find Holmes' keen gray eyes focused on me. I blushed a deeper shade of red as I murmured, "I feel the same Holmes."

I wish society was more accepting of our love, as I would have dearly loved to kiss the dear man. For all that he scoffs at sentimentality and professes his disinterest in the softer passions, he is demonstrative of his affection for me. Instead, I took his hand in my own and squeezed it, hoping he could see in my eyes what I was unable to express aloud, for fear that we would be overheard.

_I love you as well my heart_


	5. Retirement

_**Retirement**_

**Summary: **After the events of The Adventure of the Priory School, Watson asks Holmes why he was so enthusiastic about receiving his payment. Holmes' answer makes him smile

* * *

Watson glanced at Holmes. They were on the train home, after leaving Holdernesse Hall and the events of the past few days behind them. While he was amazed at how his companion solved the case, something had been bothering Watson.

"Holmes," he began, before biting his lip. _How to phrase this? It isn't a crime for a man to wish to receive just payment for his services, but Holmes had always seemed disinclined to greed_.

"Yes Watson," Holmes replied, turning from his study of the scenery flashing past and fixing his pale eyes on Watson. His expression softened as he noticed the other's anxiety. "What do you wish to know? Is this about the check?"

Watson shook his head. He had been Holmes' companion for years, and yet he would never get used to the thin detective knowing exactly what he was thinking. He seemed to get even better at reading Watson's mind after his return and their change from friends to lovers.

Shaking his head once more to clear his thoughts, Watson said, "Yes Holmes. I am not quite sure how to ask…"

"Why I was so pleased?" Holmes finished with a wry smirk. At Watson's nod, Holmes' smirk turned into a sincere smile. "I will not be able to work forever dear fellow, nor will you. I merely saw the opportunity to add to our retirement fund. A house in the country, where I can study bees whilst you write up past cases and where," his voice dropped lower, "We will not need to hide, unless we wander into the village."

Watson smiled and squeezed Holmes' elbow, the most he could get away with on the train. When they returned to Baker Street, Watson planned to show his appreciation for Holmes' foresight as well as for the gesture. What better way for Sherlock Holmes, for whom emotions were said to be a mystery, to prove that he wanted to be with Watson forever than to plan for their retirement together.


	6. The Shadow Of What Might Have Been

_**The Shadow Of What Might Have Been**_

**S****ummary: **While out walking with Holmes, Watson sees him looking at one of the young soldiers in uniform. Holmes isn't looking for the reason Watson would believe however. That young man happened to be blonde and a Scottish soldier, reminding Holmes of the man he had met years before at Bart's.

* * *

Holmes' hand on my arm prevented me from wandering off to get lost in the maze that this street seemed to be, but I couldn't stop looking from side to side. The people here seemed so energetic, despite the troubling times.

I laughed as he watched the young soldiers dancing with their lasses, seemingly carefree and content. I felt a pang of sadness as I considered how many of those men would come back, and how changed their outlook would be. I forcibly stopped that thought before it could depress me and instead focused on my companion.

"What are we looking for here Holmes?" I asked, glancing sideways to my silent companion. "Or is it a who this time?"

"No Watson," Holmes replied with a small chuckle. "It is not a who I am searching for, rather a what. There is a rather fine book on beekeeping that I have been searching for, and as there is a little of everything here, I decided to check Portebello Road for what I need, and you so kindly decided to accompany me."

"Ah," I replied, nodding. My dear friend did love his bees. In our house in Sussex (I may say our here, instead of his, as this story will never be published) he keeps bees, and the honey is quite divine.

I was broken out of my musings by the sound of bagpipes, a sound I had heard infrequently throughout childhood and not at all since I relocated to London. There were several Scottish lads, a few wearing kilts as part of their uniform, dancing to the bagpipe music with a few lasses.

Holmes paused, cocking his head to the side as he observed the dancers. I knew (quite well) that it was unlikely that the ladies had caught his eye, and wondered if it was perhaps the sight of the young gentlemen that gave him pause. I felt every one of my years and each of my injuries when Holmes turned to me after the men left. There was an odd gleam in his quicksilver eyes.

"Watson," he said, voice nothing more than a low baritone rumble. "Why do you suppose that I stopped to watch those men dancing and not the rest?"

I bit my lip to stay silent. There were several reasons that I could name, the foremost of which could never be mentioned in public. He likely read that thought on my face, as he is wont to do, as he grapsed me by the elbow once more and led me away.

"Your book Holmes," I protested. Surely, a bit of petty jealousy (when nothing would ever come of it) on my end isn't enough to cut our outing short?

"I need to explain something to you, and I fear that I cannot stand to be around these crowds another minute," Holmes said, his voice still low enough that none could overhear.

We caught a cab back to our hotel, Holmes quietly observing the people on the sidewalk as the cab trundled along.

Upon entering our rooms, Holmes quickly shut and locked the door behind me before pulling me into a thorough and breathtaking kiss.

"Do you have any idea," he panted when we finally separated, "Any idea how worried I was for you?"

I frowned, confusion swirling through me. I wasn't the one who had run all over America trying to gather enough information to fool an enemy agent.

Holmes likely read that sentiment, as he elaborated, "One of those men had your hair color John. It was difficult, to see that young man and not see him, but you. I saw you, as you must have appeared when you were off to war. I saw you, and realize that I may have never met you. Your wounds and the fever nearly killed you."

I pulled him closer, realizing just how misplaced my jealousy had been. Holmes had cared little for the youth. He had looked at the boy and saw a younger version of myself, ready to go off to war, and he had been terrified of the idea that we might never have met.

"I have the same thoughts occasionally Holmes," I admitted, causing him to raise his head from where he had buried it in my neck. I ran my fingers through his dark hair, ruffling the strands to free it from the brilliantine. "I wonder about how many times I nearly lost you before I even knew you. What criminal decided to add murder of Sherlock Holmes to whatever crime he committed that you caught."

Holmes simply stared at me, grey eyes gleaming.

"The important thing," I continued, still holding him close and carding his hair, "Is that none of that happened. We both lived and came to meet in a dingy lab at Bart's because Stamford thought we would do well together."

Holmes laughed, in that singularly silent fashion that he has. "I doubt that he understood precisely how well we would get along."

I could only laugh, agreeing.


	7. Unworthy

**_Unworthy_**

**Summary: **Sequel to "Worth Waiting For'. Watson speaks to Holmes about why Holmes feels he is 'worth waiting for'. Holmes' answer surprises him.

**Warning:** References to suicide, pre-slash, implied past H/W, definitely angst.

Dedicated to Greenleaf's Daughter, who gave me the idea for a sequel.

* * *

When I returned from my club and saw fresh ink in my journal, I paused. _Who would have been in my room and looked through my personal journal? Mrs. Hudson wouldn't, nor would the maid, so it could have only been Holmes._

Holmes…Oh dear Lord, that journal had been where I had written down everything important that happened between Holmes and I since my proposal to Mary.

I picked up the journal with shaking hands, my eyes scanning the page quickly. It was where I had written a quick summary of the events I had gone into detail with previously. I had been attempting to consider if Holmes would give me a second chance, and instead I saw how I hurt the other man.

The fresh words at the bottom of the page gave me pause.

_**Because, my dear Watson, you are worth waiting for-SH**_, was written in Holmes' signature writing. I lost several minutes staring at the words, wondering if Holmes meant them the same way I was interpreting them before I took a deep breath and went searching for my friend.

I found Holmes sitting in his chair by the fireplace, pipe in hand and eyes half-closed, exactly as he had been when I passed through earlier.

"The door has been locked," Holmes commented without turning his head. "If you wish to speak, that is."

I blinked. "Do you wish to speak about it? I thought…the softer emotions weren't your specialty."

"Nevertheless," Holmes sighed, opening his eyes and shifting slightly to face me, "The only way I can see to clear this up is to speak of it. So, we shall."

I nodded, moving to sit in my chair across from Holmes. "You read my journal," I said, deciding to start there. I had no idea how much he read, and how much he knew I regretted.

"I did," Holmes admitted. "I went to speak with you, but you were already out when I returned. Your journal was open upon your bed. I intended to close it and sit it on your desk with your others, when I saw my name. I read that page, and decided to leave a message for you."

"But why Holmes?" I asked. "Why do you deem me 'worth waiting for'? Why haven't you cursed me for the heartless cad that I am?"

"The softer passions are not my area," Holmes said, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. "I have never found one who interested me, who I could love and could love me. When I opened my heart to you John, I gave it to you. I have been described as a machine, an automaton, by you and countless others. Emotions cloud my judgment, yet I cared not because you were different."

I clenched my hands into fists. I had wounded him worse than I had realized. Holmes had given me his heart, freely and willingly, and I had spat on his offer. An offer he would make to no other.

"And then, you announced your engagement to Miss Morstan," Holmes continued without opening his eyes. "I realized, at that point, why some would murder for petty jealousy and for love. I was jealous of Miss Morstan, and I loved you. I have at times thought that I would make a better criminal than half of those that I have put away, yet I lacked the resolve. I could not do anything of the sort, in part because it would have made you unhappy. And so, I continued on as though nothing changed, when of course everything had changed. You asked me to be your best man, and I agreed of course. How could I say no to you?"

"Holmes," I whispered, aghast, but he continued on as if I hadn't spoken.

"Mycroft knew immediately, of course. He tried to comfort me, but we had never been close and neither of us were good at comforting others. I frequented his club, simply because I needed a place to sit in silence and think while in the company of someone. Mycroft was there, of course, and occasionally we would go to one of the rooms to talk, but often we simply sat together. I stopped going after you married, unable to stand his well-meaning mothering."

"Holmes," I tried again, but my voice was no louder than before and again he didn't listen.

"I began to use morphine whenever I wasn't actively on a case, as I hoped it would dull my pain. I used cocaine to make it through any time I spent in your company, as I would have not been able to stand it otherwise. Yet, simultaneously, I also craved your company with a hunger to rival any for food, drugs, or cases. I could not tell you this, of course, as married life suited you well and you were oh so happy with Miss Morstan. When Moriarty attempted to kill me, I was more than half tempted to allow him to succeed."

"Holmes!" I cried, and now my voice was louder, rising to nearly a shriek at the end. To hear that your dearest friend and beloved had contemplated suicide, of a sort, is horrifying, and to know that it was _Holmes_ who thought of it…never even in his blackest moods had he considered taking his life. What had I done to him? Why hadn't I asked him before I proposed to Mary?

"I didn't however, as I knew you would likely grieve at the loss of a friend, and so I did my all to outsmart Moriarty and return safely," Holmes continued, turning to face me. His eyes were just as clouded with emotion and pain as they had been ever since I announced my engagement. "Mycroft attempted to convince me to begin afresh elsewhere. I had no end of aliases set up during my work, it would have been simple to continue living as one of them."

I froze at the mention of how close I came to losing my friend (and more) once again. How many times have I nearly lost him, unknowingly?

"I could not, of course, as I needed to see you again. As soon as it was safe to do so, I returned and sought you out, bringing you on another case and hoping that you would not be adverse to sharing rooms after I learned of Miss Morstan's passing. I knew better than to hope for more, of course. I am merely a passing fancy to you, perfect to satisfy your carnal needs while you wait to find another pretty lass to be your wife."

"That's not true Holmes!" I cried. I could have handled him calling me any and all manner of ill names as, in truth, I deserve each of them, but I cannot stand to hear him demean himself.

"Isn't it?" Holmes asked, smirking self-deprecatingly. "There was a time I would have believed that. I was a fool Watson, and I remain a fool to this day. If you asked me to resume our prior relationship, I likely would consent. I need you, dear boy, far more than I could possibly make you realize. You are a weakness for me, of course, and I would give in. Even considering how long you will stay now, how long it will be before another pretty thing in a bonnet catches your eye and sends you down on one knee, I still would take you back. You are worth waiting for Watson, and I would have to be a simpleton not to realize that. You do not realize your worth at times. It is my own fault that I was unworthy."

"Holmes," I tried once more, imploring him to let me speak, to attempt to atone for all of the wounds I unknowingly caused. He just shook his head, put on his coat, and left our flat.


End file.
